


Who Watches Us

by entanglednow



Category: Lost
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jacob's the one who looks harmless. Jacob's the one who looks like you should trust him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Watches Us

Jacob's never learned how to drink. He's never done it for pleasure, never done it to impress anyone, to be a part of something. He simply drinks like he's thirsty, and curious, wine tipped up too fast like he's not expecting it to be strong. Esau laughs but doesn't tell him to stop, because it's so very Jacob and Esau doesn't feel guilty, has never felt guilty, for stealing him away for moments like this. In these moments Jacob is simply his brother and they don't have to fight, they don't have to speak around the things that separate them. There's nothing but the grass and the forest and the heavy lean of the trees, and no eyes to judge them.

Jacob steals the jug he sets down when the view out into the forest distracts him. Though he's too honest to hide the swish of grass and the heavy slide of his feet in the dirt.

Esau laughs and shakes his head and lets him have it. Because, of the two of them, Jacob is the only one who still lives by her rules and Esau will break them whenever he can, however he can. Jacob smiles like this, rare and unsteady in a way that Esau takes to mean he doesn't mind being stolen, doesn't mind these evenings in the jungle where no one can find them, where the whole island feels like it's theirs.

Sometimes Esau thinks it's almost enough. But these moments are brief and precarious and the fall away from peace seems more brittle every time, more violent.

He thinks eventually one of them will stop coming.

Not now, maybe not until years from now, but one day.

He isn't surprised when he's the one left awake in the darkness, when the rumbles of amusement and conversation from Jacob finally fade, go soft and quiet, and then turn into the low rush of breath in the darkness. Esau turns his head to look and finds his brother spread in the grass, eyes closed.

He laughs because he can, laughs because he knows he'll be blamed for this.

Jacob looks younger in sleep, almost as young as Esau remembers him being when he left. There's no careful distance, no disappointment, just a sprawl of limbs in the grass.

Jacob could have been so much more than this, he's far smarter,  far stronger than he's ever been allowed to be. He deserves better than to be left obeying rules Esau isn't even certain he understands.

But he made all the wrong choices.

Jacob's always been the one of them who looked harmless. Jacob's the one who looks like you should trust him. Esau thinks he would have chosen Jacob, if he'd asked. If Jacob had chosen him. Because Jacob's solid and immovable, and loyal to a fault, loyal to his own destruction. Esau can't help but be bitter that none of that loyalty was for him.

He slips the jug out of Jacob's fingers, lets them fall against his own knee when he pulls it up and drinks what Jacob has left him.

He spends a moment, a long moment, watching Jacob sleep. It's been a long time since he's seen him like this. Since they'd shared the same space in the dark. He lifts a hand, lets his fingers slide into Jacob's hair. It's clean and warm, softer than it should be - than it has any right to be. But then Jacob always manages to be not quite what he expects, in so many tiny ways. While being just familiar enough to still be Jacob. Esau vividly remembers pulling his hair as they rolled around in the dirt, in the way only children who have nothing to really fight for do. They're a long way from children, they've both been pushed into their own roles since then, and Esau knows that neither of them are happy with them. Neither of them have accepted them, no matter what Jacob tells himself.

It's only fair that Esau play his role, the one who doesn't fit, the one who fights to make his own destiny, the one who chooses for himself. The one who does what the other won't dare.

He sets the jug down somewhere on the ground, the soft tilt of it staining the grass red.

He leans over, finds where Jacob tastes like warmth and wine.

It's selfish and wrong in so many ways, ways he'd thought about, but never admitted to, never made real.

Esau leans back, just far enough to feel the rush of Jacob breathing, every soft, deep exhale.

It's far too easy to draw up the soft edge of his shirt and push his fingers underneath. Jacob is paler than him but his skin under the material is warm, a warmth that leaves him stretching out his fingers until his entire palm is laid flat across Jacob's stomach.

It slides, catches the curve of Jacob's waist before drifting higher, thumb dragging over the dents of his ribcage. Jacob sighs but doesn't wake.

Esau can feel every breath, every stretch of muscle. It's far too easy to curve over him again, to kiss the relaxed softness of his mouth again. He makes a noise there, chastising Jacob for being easy, for trusting far too much. Esau could settle his weight down and take whatever he wanted. He could leave Jacob's mouth wet and his clothes in sharp disarray. He could do worse than that.

There's a faint murmur, the faraway curl of his own name and Esau doesn't know if that makes it better, if that makes it fair.

He shifts away, leans back against the tree and breathes the cold night air.

Esau sits in the growing darkness and drinks the wine, and he thinks about choices.

  



End file.
